


How Would You Feel (Northern Soul Remix)

by silkstocking



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Accidental Soul Bond, M/M, Remix, Toronto Maple Leafs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-20 07:23:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14255877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkstocking/pseuds/silkstocking
Summary: A goal isn't the only thing that passes between them the first time they go head to head.





	How Would You Feel (Northern Soul Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [F1DEL1US](https://archiveofourown.org/users/F1DEL1US/gifts).
  * Inspired by [How Would You Feel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10999494) by [F1DEL1US](https://archiveofourown.org/users/F1DEL1US/pseuds/F1DEL1US). 



Freddie's so focused on Kadri at the point that he doesn’t see number 16 come drifting across until it’s too late and the Leafs goal horn is ringing in his ears for the fifth time that night. He slams his stick down on top of the net, pissed off at himself and at the team; this whole game has been a fucking shitshow. Across the ice, the Leafs slam 16 into the boards, screaming and cheering and hugging him. Freddie’s eyes catch on 16’s delighted face, lit up with the excitement of scoring. Then, as if he can feel Freddie’s gaze, 16 looks over and their eyes meet.

A shiver of something goes through Freddie, making the hairs at the back of his neck prickle. He looks away quickly, busying himself with his gear. He needs to get his head back in the game.

He never quite manages it.

*

Freddie knows the Ducks see Gibson as 'the guy', their franchise goalie, but it still sucks to start the playoffs on the bench, watching his team lose two straight in their own fucking barn. When he gets the nod, he's off and running, winning a game, and another, and another, until they're in touching distance of the second round. Then Rinne takes two in a row, and that's that. An exhausting, disappointing end to Freddie's playoffs, and his life in Anaheim. He hates how unfinished it feels, an itch under his skin that he can't quite scratch.

He's expecting it, but the trade and negotiations still seem to happen in a whirlwind. Almost before he has time to breathe, he’s agreeing to an extension: five years in Toronto, on the kind of money that no Danish goalie before him has ever dreamed of. The kind of money his trainer told him he could get but Freddie had never quite believed him. He really should send Prohaska a text to say thanks.

When he flies out to meet with management, some of the guys are still around, training in Toronto for the summer. They crowd around when Shanahan takes him to the locker room, clapping Freddie on the back and welcoming him to the team by talking all at once. There’s one guy that looks familiar, though Freddie can’t place him: a redhead with a cute face and friendly eyes.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m Brownie. Uh, Connor. Brown.”

“Nice to meet you, man.”

Freddie sticks his hand out, but when Brownie clasps it to shake, a static shock goes through them both. Freddie swears and shakes out his hand while Brownie stares at him, wide-eyed.

The one who introduced himself as Mo elbows Brownie and says, “Don't break the new goalie, asshole. We need him.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Brownie protests, and then they’re wrestling, laughing and pushing each other as the other guys encourage them.

They seem like a good group and Freddie finds himself relaxing, laughing along with the others and agreeing easily when they offer to show him the city. But his eyes keep drifting to Brownie, and he can’t help running his fingers over the spot where the shock hit, over and over.

*

Being back in Herning, in his old rink with his dad and his old friends, usually helps Freddie settle. This time around, he just feels restless. The itch that started with the playoffs lasts right through the summer. Nothing he does seems to shake it. Even his morning yoga routine leaves him off-balance instead of centred, his head buzzing instead of clear. By the time he heads to Copenhagen for Team Denmark’s few days of Olympic training camp, other people have started to notice.

“What the fuck is up with you?” Frans asks, pulling up next to Freddie in a flurry of snow. “My grandmother could have saved some of those shots and she’s been dead for fifteen years.”

“Maybe you should dig her up,” Freddie says, then sighs, tugging off his mask and pushing his sweaty hair off his forehead. “I don’t know, Cap. I’ll do better.”

Frans grins and ruffles Freddie’s hair with his gloved hand. “I know you will.”

But when Freddie steps on the ice in Minsk, he doesn’t. He can’t. Five pucks find the back of his net against Belarus, another two against Slovenia. Embarrassment and anger course through him in waves, until he goes down in a messy pile with Bjorkstrand and all that’s left is pain.

The look in the physio’s eyes tells him everything he needs to know.

All of a sudden, Freddie finds himself back in Toronto with a fucked up shoulder and nothing in his calendar for September except for rehab. He’s on day three of moping around his apartment feeling sorry for himself when Connor Brown shows up at his door with a six pack of Molson and a lopsided smile.

“Hey, man. Sucks about the World Cup. Wanna play some Chel?”

It’s pretty nice to have someone around to keep him from dwelling on his shitty summer. Brownie is a good workout buddy who laughs easily at Freddie’s jokes and keeps him entertained with rambling anecdotes about his GTA boys that usually seem to end up with someone getting drunk and trying something dumb. He insists on dragging Freddie out of his apartment to show him all the places he loves in Toronto, and, slowly but surely, the restless itch seems to melt from Freddie’s shoulders like water.

They’re watching Team Europe light up the goddamn Swedes, and the whole thing is kind of an insulting concept anyway so Freddie's only feeling the _tiniest_ bit jealous of Halak, when Brownie shoots him a sly sideways glance and says, “You know, I scored my first NHL goal on you. I don’t know if you remember.”

“What? When was this?”

“Uh, March. The Ducks were at the ACC. I equalized, Naz won it in OT.”

“Oh, fuck, that game,” Freddie says, laughing and shoving Brownie with his good shoulder. “I never knew that was you. I was so pissed off that night.”

“I know, you were, like, glaring at me,” Brownie says. “You looked mean.”

“I’m not mean,” Freddie protests. “I let you hang around here all day and eat all my food, don’t I?”

“Yeah, but it's weird Danish food,” Brownie says, sliding out of Freddie’s reach. “Fuck black licorice.”

“You can leave any time, bud,” Freddie says. He tries to glare, and then they’re both laughing.

“Nah,” Brownie says. “Who would keep your ass humble then? C’mon, find the controller, I wanna beat you again.”

Later, Brownie says, a little quieter than usual, “Do you miss it?”

“What?”

“California. The Ducks.”

He does, is the thing. The weather, the atmosphere, his friends. But— “I’ll always love California,” he says, “but I think I could fall in love with Toronto as well.”

He can’t even bring himself to chirp Brownie for how happy that makes him. He knows what it's like to love your hometown, after all. 

*

Somehow, video games with Connor have become a kind of ritual, a way of winding down after the string of stupid losses they start the season with.

“Hey, I went to this, uh, Danish bakery the other day,” Connor says. “They had really good pastries.”

Connor doesn’t take his eyes off the Freddie he’s controlling on-screen but he sounds weirdly hopeful, like a rookie seeking approval.

“Cool,” Freddie says, and scores on him.

“The guy taught me this thing,” Connor says, as they both watch Laine celly. “It was like… man, how did he say it again? Hoo-gah?”

A rush of fondness warms Freddie’s chest. “ _Hygge_?”

“Yeah, that. He said it was, like, some special Danish thing?”

“It means coziness, I guess. Like warm fires and nice times with friends.”

“Oh. Kind of like this.”

“Yeah, Brownie,” Freddie says, nudging him with his foot. “Kind of like this.”

When Freddie looks over, Connor’s cheeks are flushed pink but his lips curve up in a pleased smile. Freddie smiles back, a little helplessly, and Connor's eyes crinkle at the corners. They look at each other for too long, companionable silence spinning out between them until Connor makes his excuses and stands up to leave.

The warmth in Freddie’s chest doesn't last when he’s left alone to stare at the four walls, thinking about how he was hoping this season was going to go.

*  
  
They win, and then win again, and the itch under Freddie’s skin just keeps coming back. When he sees Miller go after Marty, he’s halfway down the ice before he even realizes what he’s doing. He paces the locker room for long, restless minutes after he gets ejected, until the team spill in, jubilant with victory and still a little high on the adrenaline of a line brawl.

“Three in a row, boys!” Leo yells. “Fuck yeah!”

“Holy fuck, what a goon, eh?” Marty says, laughing and reaching up to mess up Freddie’s hair. “I’m impressed. Thanks for helping me out.”

Everyone wants to talk about it, congratulating and chirping him in equal measures. When he finally makes it back to his stall to strip off the last of his gear, Connor is waiting for him with eyes as big as teacups.

“Jesus, Freddie,” he says. “I didn’t know you fought.”

“It wasn’t a real fight,” Freddie says with a shrug. “I was just sticking up for my guys.”

“Okay but still. It was pretty cool.”

Freddie probably couldn't hold back his grin even if he wanted to. “Thanks, Brownie.”

“And hey, another win,” Connor says, grinning back. “We’re finally getting somewhere.”

He looks so earnest that it’s easy to believe him. Right up until Freddie’s getting yanked off the ice three nights later midway through the second. Fuck the Kings. Fuck the team for leaving him alone out there. Fuck the whole messed up half-year he’s had.

They give him a wide berth in the locker room this time and he’s grateful; he’s not sure he could talk to anyone without snapping. He showers in silence, tells the media what they want to hear, and drives himself home to wallow in peace.

He’s almost surprised when the doorbell rings, but not quite.

“I’m not in the mood tonight, bud,” Freddie says, opening the door to Connor’s worried face. “Sorry.”

Connor’s shoulders slump, and that makes something twist in Freddie’s gut. When Connor turns to leave, Freddie says, “Wait.”

He hates that he loves the hopeful smile that lights up Connor’s face.

“We can just hang out, if you want. Just… no NHL.”

“It’s cool,” Connor says softly. “Sometimes I don’t want to think about hockey for a while either.”

Freddie steps back wordlessly to let him in, then heads to the kitchen, throwing over his shoulder, “Do you want a drink? Food? I still have licorice left from the summer.”

Connor makes a face and trails after him. “Gross. I still don’t know why you like that stuff.”

“Comfort food,” Freddie says, and that seems to kill the conversation all over again.

Connor leans against the island and watches Freddie as he moves around the kitchen, grabbing glasses from the cupboards and ice from the refrigerator and vodka from the fancy wine rack. He pours them both a generous measure. Freddie downs half of his in one gulp, but Connor wrinkles his nose and says, “Don’t you have any Red Bull?”

“Jesus,” Freddie says. Connor laughs, though he looks like he didn’t mean to. Freddie sighs and puts his drink down, leaning back against the cabinets.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

“It’s our thing,” Connor says. “After games, our—I don’t fucking know, Freddie, it’s our thing.”

Freddie snorts. “And you didn’t think I might want some time alone after a game like that one?”

“No,” Connor says simply. “I didn’t.”

“Connor…”

“Please, Freddie.”

The catch in Connor’s voice makes Freddie look at him, really look at him, for the first time since he stepped through the door. He looks as jagged-edged as Freddie feels, pale and exhausted and wrung-out. There's something familiar in his expression, some melancholia beyond the result of a fucking ice hockey game. Freddie's fingers itch to soothe the weariness from Connor's shoulders, the sadness from his eyes, the downturn of his mouth.

“Please,” Connor says again, and Freddie stops second-guessing himself, closing the distance between them to press their lips together.

It’s like no other kiss he’s ever experienced. When Connor’s tongue slips into his mouth, sparks seem to race up Freddie’s spine like new year fireworks. Every part of him aches with want and he feels whole in a way he hasn't in months. Kissing Connor feels like coming home, like uniting two sundered parts of— _oh, shit_. Freddie breaks the kiss and steps back, his head spinning.

“Fuck,” Connor breathes, trembling as he slumps against the counter. “Fuck.”

“Did you know?” Freddie demands. His whole body is screaming for him to close the gap again, to get his hands and his mouth back on Connor, but he resists. “Connor, did you know?”

“Know what? That kissing you was going to feel like that? No!”

“That we were bonded!”

“What?” Connor says, and he looks so shocked that Freddie knows they’ve both been blindsided by this. “This is a bond?”

“Yes! You felt it too, no? Like you couldn't relax, like—”

“—something was missing,” Connor finishes. “Yeah, I felt it. I just didn't know—”

“Me neither. Not til now,” Freddie says. “Fuck. How did this happen?”

“I thought goalie bonds were really rare.” Connor sounds a little hysterical. “I thought—when I think of bonds, I think of lineys. Gretzky and Kurri—”

“I know,” Freddie says. “I know.” He rests his head on Connor’s shoulder and Connor's hand comes up to stroke Freddie’s hair. It feels good, those points of contact, and Freddie forces himself to breathe deeply until he feels calm again. 

“We need to tell the team,” he says eventually.

“Do we have to tell them now?”

“Connor—”

“Fred,” Connor says, and when Freddie raises his head, there's unfettered desire in Connor’s green eyes. “Does it have to be now?”

It’s unspoken agreement that gets them to the bedroom. Neither of them can stand to let go long enough to get undressed, but they muddle through it, kissing and sharing touches between each article of clothing that hits the floor. Freddie sits on the bed and tugs Connor down with him, desperate to press as much skin together as he can. He tangles his fingers in Connor’s hair and drags him in for a kiss, gasping against Connor's mouth like a drowning man. The bond is a compulsion between them, pulling them together. Every sensation is heightened: the slick slide of tongues, fresh sweat on Connor's skin, the rasp of blunted fingernails down Freddie's back. Connor's hands move unerringly over Freddie's body as if they'd practised this a thousand times. His fingers are like brands burning hot against Freddie's flesh, drawing moans from him as they skim over sensitive places, finding all the spots that light Freddie up. In turn Freddie mouths at Connor's neck, at his collarbone, his nipples, relishing each new gasp or sigh or arch of Connor's back, every flicker of pleasure across his expressive face.

After what might be a minute or a lifetime, Connor makes a noise of frustration deep in his throat and rolls them over, capturing Freddie's mouth in another dizzying, desperate kiss. He digs his fingers into Freddie's ass, bringing their hips together and making them both moan. His hard dick slides against Freddie’s, and then there's nothing but primal need about the way they rut against each other. Freddie reaches down to take them both in hand, jerking roughly until Connor sighs and shivers and comes all over Freddie’s dick.

“Fuck,” Freddie gasps, “Connor, Connor.”

“Yeah, come on,” Connor says, wrapping his hand around Freddie’s, and it doesn’t take long before Freddie’s coming too, chasing the sparks right over the edge.

They lie there afterward, intertwined, neither of them willing to let go of the other. Connor's eyes are closed but Freddie can't stop looking, drinking in the lines of his face, the pattern of freckles that dust his nose, the length of his pale eyelashes. He can feel Connor's pulse beneath his skin, strong and vital, anchoring them both. For the first time in a very long time, Freddie feels settled.

“I think a bond is like the ultimate _hygge_ ,” Connor mumbles, nonsensically.

Freddie laughs. “Your pronunciation is getting better.”

“Also, the team is going to get so much mileage out of this. Like, we will never stop hearing about the fucking _fellowship between gingers_ or whatever it was Mitchy kept saying when he was drunk that one time.”

Freddie laughs again. He pushes Connor’s hair back from his face with his clean hand before pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You're cute,” he says, in Danish because that's somehow less embarrassing.

“Come on,” Connor protests, “that's cheating. I only know one word.”

“But it's a good one,” Freddie says, then sighs. “Shit. What the hell are we going to do now?”

Connor shifts in his arms, opening his eyes to meet Freddie’s gaze. “Be bonded. Be awesome. Play great hockey together.”

“Is it so easy?”

“Sure,” Connor says, and kisses him, and Freddie thinks that maybe it could be.


End file.
